


All Drama Has Its Roots in the Past

by Twilit



Series: The Gospel Bright and Tenebrous [6]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Eldritch Horror AU, F/F, OCs - Freeform, Sadstuck, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Vampire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2518979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twilit/pseuds/Twilit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words have power. They have, in the right hands, substance. Once, when she was little more than a child, Rose Lalonde moulded words like clay and made a mark upon the face of humanity through the medium of dark fantasy. Now she bends her will to the task again, for far more dire purposes. She is a horrorterror and like the rest of her kind, she must feed on the thoughts, the worship of feeble mortals. Though her corporeal form is similarly frail, she must see this through, or cost humanity its very existence.</p><p>Because something is coming. Something that no angel or horrorterror can or will stand. Something that will make all tragedy that came before this look very minor indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Before you were reborn, you’d not known a feeling like this. 

Even after, you had not experienced this bliss, this sustenance, this feasting joy. You were an innocent, as innocent as your kind came because you did not indulge in this heady rush. You drank her liquid life as it rushed up from her depths, throbbing, flowing and ebbing with the heated, frenzied pattern of her heart. The spice of it filled your mouth and warmed you from your core, sending sparking twitches to your extremities in pulses reminiscent of orgasm.

No cold stored blood this. No stale nourishment drained carefully from your haemofont so as not to damage her. No, this was how it was meant to be done. Hot blood sucked cleanly from a wound made in the frenzied love-making of animals. Blood that carried the flavours of need, desire, and a little bit of fear. The purest expression of hunter and prey, the taking and celebration of life. Liquid that contained the sparking, electric confirmation of existence, of consciousness willingly, wilfully giving itself over to you.

A savage passage of your tongue sealed the wound and then you were claiming her hot mouth, one hand twisted in blonde hair, the other spreading her, finding your way into her. A deep, thrumming moan escaped your locked mouths and for the life of you, you were not sure from whom it originates. Her hands clutched at your bare body like talons. If they drew blood, you are certain you didn’t care, certain that you would lick it off each delicate fingertip.

Your hunger is sated, but your need remains, so you break the kiss and haul her around. She was smaller, weaker than you even before your rebirth, so it is no trouble to cast her to the bed and clamber on top of her. Even as your ride her face, you focus on her legs, drawing a tongue far longer than any humans from the back of her knee, closer to the wetness between her legs. Even as her fingers enter you and her lips suck at your nub, you gasp and tense, your fingernails dragging rough lines across alabaster skin. Then your tongue enters her and her cry reverberates through your core.

Your hips press into her mouth as her legs trap your head, both of you vying to make the other yours.

Long into the night you continue and you are only victorious when you kneel, sweating and bloodied above her spent, unconscious form.

You were innocent, before. Before you placed yourself here, like a goddess of love and war, dripping a mixed slurry over your conquered lover.

* * *

Before you were reborn, you’d not known a feeling like this. 

Even after, you had not experienced this bliss, this sustenance, this feasting joy. The beaming worship of an untold number of minds washed over you, crashed into you like beating waves of a cold, distant shore. You drank their adoration up and it filled you, made you whole. It sated a hunger you did not even know was there, a flickering thing that was but a paltry shadow of the ravenous appetites of the older members of your kind. 

You knew why you wrote, then. Before, it had been almost academic, a distant, half-hearted thing. You broke free of the Furthest Ring, plunging through cosmic hells to rekindle the worship of humanity so that your eldritch kin might not waste in maddening starvation. But all you’d known was _their_ hunger, _their_ reasoning, _their_ desperation. Barely three decades into your Nobility, you’d had no real concept of their abyssal needs, of the voracious pit that their solitude had carved into their liminal beings.

Not one hour into this event and you could quite clearly imagine the insanity that deprivation from this beatific immersion would cause. The more tempered admiration of the masses laid a foundation of mental solidity while the rabid, mindless worship of true fanatics and the adoration of die-hard fans filled your psyche with heady, sparking energy. Even the grudging and careless thoughts of dismissal, derision and impatience of guardians and haters fed you, lending a sour counter note to your psychic feast. 

Their worship beat at you, lapped at your feet like the relentless waves of a sea. You were mountainous, statuesque, cold and implacable. Though you drank it up, you gave no sign of acknowledging the attentions because after all, that which is worshipped must be distant, must be inscrutable.

You went into the auditorium a shrunken and wasted thing, intent on getting the job done and getting out. The woman who rose from her chair at the end bore virtually no resemblance to that creature that sat down, despite being clad in the same flesh and dust. You were-

* * *

_-a powerful, commanding figure that we could easily imagine as a skilled orator. From those lips the overwrought verbosity that characterized the early part of the reading seemed less tortuous and more hypnotic, more enchanting. A steady, thrumming voice led us through fantastic labyrinthine passages without ever seeming to need a breath. The crowd’s restless shuffling was stilled by the sheer force of the performance into a high-strung, rapturous silence that we would hardly have believed had we not been part of it._

_You could hear a pin drop when Ms. Lalonde finished, but that was nothing before the eruption of applause that followed. For a moment, it seemed like she drank it in, a modern goddess bathing in the devotion of her followers before she gave a small curtsy and stepped out of the cold light._

_But not before the projector lit the backing curtains with,_

_“Rose Lalonde returns with_

 

 

The Gospel Bright and Tenebrous

 

 

 


	2. All

You remember Kanaya’s open arms after your reading, the welcome stability of their enfolding grasp even as you trembled from nerves and power, from rapturous adulation. You remembered sinking into them, face pressed to her breast as your breath came quick and fast, on the verge of hyperventilation. Her concern at your seeming indisposition, her shock at your sudden, hungry kiss. 

You felt more alive in that moment than you had since you were a child. No dead vessel were you, something to pour an immense liminal soul into, something to crack with power, shatter at the very thought of action. You thrummed with energy, your limbs practically vibrating with the ardour of your soul. 

You took her in your dressing room then, all lascivious tongues and dark pseudopodia, till light spilled from you both in a sparking corona, hers bright, pure sunlight and yours the dying shafts of twilight before the onset of true night. 

The dinner thereafter was memorable, if only for the taste you could manage again, the appetite you had once more. 

You remember all this even as the New York skies break open in a gesture of pathetic fallacy and soak your shambling form to the bone. There is much to remember.

In the distance, a door slams shut.


	3. Drama

Your stomach aches with feelings you’d half-forgotten, have still largely forgotten. Hunger, hurt, or perhaps lovesickness gnaw at your center and it is only through a force of will that you don’t grasp yourself around your middle. Instead you trudge through the storming night, letting the wind and rain lash at your body as you lash at the demons of your mind, your own regrets and self-recriminations. 

Block after block you make your way through the slowly emptying streets, a sodden spectre trailing things people can’t see. Your near invisible shadow folds in upon itself, fighting with its own borders, gnashing umbral teeth in hate, anger and frustration. Half of you is boiling over and the other half plummets into the dark. You wouldn’t give a thought to which half is which; your mind polarizes manically between needing to rend a mortal, a mortal soul and wanting to crawl into a pocket of dark and stay there.

The confusion inside you manifests as a slight trembling that begins in your fingers and spreads, traitorously up to your hand and then your arm. Distantly, you observe your pale limbs go black, or is it blue. Blue certainly in your fingertips, under nails just healing from endless gnawing and self-harm. A flicker and the blue is black, serrated eyes bubbling up from underneath them and popping in the harsh glare of reality. It can’t stand the real world.

You cock your head, freezing a moment in epiphany. Then a faint, fey giggle escapes you. That’s exactly it, after all. Your heart, the beating core of unnatural corruption that comprises your soul, cannot stand the laws of this world. Likewise, the porcelain lattice of your human heart cannot stand the harsh realities of this world. Your body is a vessel in more ways than one, a citadel of flesh and fantasy, keeping you safe from stark reality.

A thrum of sudden desire to flee this plane, to abandon all you’ve worked for, blasts through you and for a moment you can feel the existential hooks in your body come loose. A sensation like falling upwards takes hold for a moment and while part of you wants to fight it, a larger part wants to go _home_. Running has never been so attractive. 

But that desire halts just as quickly as an _intent_ manifests nearby. The pale corona of worship, real worship, dances around it and you find yourself slowly responding to it. The pull of it is faint, but real and demanding and you wonder if you have stumbled across a human who understands _and_ has power. The will necessary to compel your attention would be phenomenal. Well, they have your attention, you decide, as you settle back into your vessel and very nearly float off towards the source of the pull.

You notice finally how far you have trudged through the city. Gone are the signs of wealth, conspicuous consumption. Empty storefronts glare at you like the sunken sockets of the weary, the dead inside. Lights are on in a few buildings; dim, flickering things that cast long shadows. As your own shadow shifts and warps into something resembling a human form, you turn a corner, and with a sureness born of hunger you spot the source of your interest. A decrepit, condemned building. Lights more alive than the bulbs of the main street dance from behind slatted windows. 

A very human shiver runs down your spine and you decide that, even if you aren’t interested in whoever is in there, you do want a piece of their fire.  
They all fall back from a very familiar ritual circle, some laughing at themselves, one boy falling right on his ass, and a girl looking vaguely disappointed. Three girls and two boys, dressed for rain that still trickled through loose floorboards above. In the corner an oil-drum houses a fire.

“See, Lia? Told you it wouldn’t work,” the boy flat on his ass says to the disappointed girl. They could be brother and sister, their olive skin and dark hair matching.

“Yeah, who actually buys into this stuff.”

“Shut up, it was fun trying and you know it.”

“You mean it was fun arguing about the descriptions of the stupid circle.”

“Well yeah, that too. And the practices.”

“Ohhhh yeaaaahhh, so hyped about them choir practices. Jesus, my momma didn’t make me sing that much in Alabama on Sundays.”

“Sure as hell shows, you couldn’t carry a tune if you were playing Graves against bots.”

“Nerd.”

“We’re reading fucking goth-lit, is that supposed to be an insult?”

“Nah, y’all’re reading goth shit, I’m here to make sure none of you wind up dead in a few.”

“Ooooh, look at the tough _man,_ gonna keep us safe?”

“What, you gonna look out for your frail self?”

There’s the _snikt_ of a switchblade and a delicate hand removes a container of pepper spray from a skirt pocket.

“I take back everything,” the wisemouth says, a serious expression descending onto his face like clockwork. There is a moment of quiet, and then the group breaks into giggles and laughter. An old joke, a ritual in and of itself.

“Come off it, Dylon, you don’t always gotta be playing the coolkid around us.”

“Man, if I was worried about being cool I would be home, playing CoD with the rest of the guys.”

“Yeah? Where do they think you are?”

A shrug from Dylon. “Didn’t say. Gotta maintain that aura of mystery.”

A snort from a thickset girl. “Aura of fucking mystery. Yeah, you’re in the right place.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought Sash,” Dylon says, grinning. 

Sash rolls her eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Not like anyone actually thought this would do anything. Guess we’re all in it for the mystery”

A murmur of agreement travels through the group before the disappointed girl with the olive skin and huge dark eyes says, “Would have been nice though,”

“Nice? What, you lookin’ for a tentacle monster of your own?” an overdressed asian girl made an obscene gesture at the Lia girl, long, polished nails dancing lewdly. Lia ripostes with a classic stuck-out tongue, and her counterpart returned with a tongue flicking between fingers in a V. You’d be scandalized, but you’ve seen worse. You’ve _been_ worse.

“I’m just sayin’... the world sucks right now. It’s boring _and_ it’s slowly killing us. At least _that_ ,” she waves at the circle, “would have given us some excitement.”

“Yeah, I guess. Not like we don’t all know that we’re in this for the escapism.”

“Annnnd on that incredibly depressing note, how about we go back to the playing prete-”

“Guys,” one of the other kids says.

“We’re not just-”

“GUYS.” The group shuts up, stops squabbling. Looks at the one white kid. They follow his gaze. Look at you. Stop moving. This, you suppose, is your cue.

You step forward with a less than auspicious squelch. You look down at the offending boot and then resign yourself to a less dramatic entrance than you’d hope for with a scowl. The other boot has more courtesy and you make your way to the oil-drum, pausing for a moment to inspect their “magic circle.” You are surprised by their attention to detail. You’re almost certain you never included that much information about summoning in your earlier works, but the shapes and angles within are vaguely reminiscent of the eye-aching sigils that might actually call something into-

_for a moment you are fourteen again, hunched over a similar thing, surrounded by other children, chanting thing, and feeling the first horrible, glorious ekeings of transfiguration force their way up your throat. that circle is long erased, most of the children now dead, and one of them holding a dagger black with your b-_

being.

You continue to make your way to the oil drum, where you limply raise your hands to the fire and sigh in contentment that you only distantly feel. You should shuck the jacket, let it dry. But you are too tuned to the children’s rapt attention and know not to say or do anything that might break the spell. As the warmth begins to penetrated your frigid skin, you hear weight shift, people coming to a decision to maybe say something.

You do not let them.

“It was a very stirring attempt, fictive though it was,” you murmur into the crackling fire. But their senses are all trained on you and they all pick it up. Having retained the initiative, you continue, “I particularly like the circle. So… evocative.”

You turn, setting your chilled back to the fire, letting it silhouette you. 

“Tell me, who was responsible for that little bit of realization… or was it a group effort?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it would come. Eventually.


	4. Has

The room you were in was loud and bright, filled with the chattering of self-important snobs that you’re sure thought the same of you. Of course, you could have confirmed their opinion with but a tendril of thought, but why sully your mind by touching theirs? You did not remotely care enough about your perception here. Which, in part, is why Kanaya and your agent dragged you out here. You were fantastic hands-on with your fans, in a Morticia Adams sort of way, but with anyone else in the industry? Less so. 

The bulk of it was these people’s inherent self-obsession and interest. It rubbed you the wrong way twice. First in that there was the lack of devotion, or worship that your fans assured you. While that was probably self-serving in its own way, you cannot help it. Your soul, having once tasted that worship, hungers for it as a true horrorterror would. Briefly, you wondered if the reliance on worship is some manner of addiction, rather than nourishment, but given that beings as willful as the Noble Circle had done without it for aeons, you quickly dismissed those musings. 

Secondly, and more humanely, their greed was simply distasteful. They barely saw anything outside themselves and their close circle of ego-massaging, worth-confirming acquaintances. You thought that you would hold the same disdain for them even had you not been changed by the Furthest Ring. Perhaps it was a character flaw. You doubted it.

Still, you could summon enough oiliness and mystery to appease these societal wastebins for a night. You supposed your agent had a point, and it wouldn’t do to upset Kanaya, who, as far as you could tell, actively enjoyed these charades. Though that likely had more to do with the chance to show off whatever fine bit of sartorial flair she’d sewn together this time. A typical “little black dress” with a very atypical mismatched short jacket, one half soft grey flannel, the other half radically chequered.

You had to make an effort to look elsewhere, not only because you were unaccustomed to your new (or regained, you supposed) capability for arousal but because the human drivel around you kept noticing and asking probing questions on your status, your relationship. Kanaya and you felt that it was sufficiently obvious what your relationship was and that it was distinctly undignified and beneath you to answer the public on those questions. Even if sometimes you wanted to snap, all sharpened teeth and hungry eyes, “Why yes, I’m fucking the Dolorosa. I fucked her on the way here. I think I’ll fuck her on the way back. Of course, now that you’ve heard this, I will have to carve your heart out of your chest and eat it raw.”

Focusing back in on whatever dull conversation you were supposed to be interested in, you noticed a familiar expression on the face of one of the participants. Strained, polite interest, covering a fantastic depth of boredom. The small man noticed your attention and in the blink of an eye managed a quirked smile, a wink and a miniscule nod of his little bald head. Had you not been paying attention, it was very likely that you wouldn’t have caught it at all. 

A kindred soul perhaps? You’d have to see.

* * *

Your name was Kanaya Maryam and you were attending as the Dolorosa. Also, to get Rose out of the apartment and living something resembling a human life. Previous conversations with Roux flit through your mind and you dismiss them. This is for her, in more ways than one. Outside of something like a social life, it gives her the opportunity to promote The Gospel. Perhaps another publisher might pick it up.

You weren’t the absolute greatest at marketing, you had professionals for that. But you understood the way the game was played and were more than happy to show off. Your garments were about the only thing you’re comfortable flaunting, which made people’s _incessant_ questions about your relationship tiring and embarrassing. The night was most certainly not about that, however it may have started. Forcing yourself not to blush, you put those thoughts thoroughly out of your mind and reviewed the schedule. 

The dinner and speeches were long over, and you’d dutifully cut a cheque as the other guests did for the relief of Syrian victims. You’d wondered if you would have to deal with more ignorant questions if “that was the part of the world you came from” but thankfully, so far no-one had broached them. Perhaps they’d done their homework, read the innumerable interviews in which you had quite clearly stated that you were from New York, the United States, so were your parents and that your grandmother had come over from Morocco when she was a teen.

A moment of consideration longer and you decided that no, no, you were probably just lucky.

You sipped at the champagne and grimace. While your digestive system had no problem metabolizing things other than blood (hell, you could even get drunk, unlike some other bloodlines), you never quite got the taste for wine in general, let alone champange. Certainly it was easier to down than the myriad other types, but it still tasted acrid in your mouth. 

“The wine not to your liking, Dolorosa?” a deferent voice murmured from your side. You stiffened, then sighed. The particular deference in the tone and the inflection in the title identified them as someone who knew about the hidden kin, even if their smell identified them as human, still.

“No wine is to my liking, dear,” you said, turning. You were quite surprised. A woman of mixed race, smaller than you, wearing a formal suit. Not even a woman’s formal suit, for all that it was tailor made. You cocked your head at her, inquiring.

“Oh, uh, yeah!” She jammed her hand out, all signs of deference gone. “Nepeta Leijon.”

You took it with some bemusement and interest. “Leijon? I’d heard that family was… and you remain… ahhh.”

Things slotted into place even as Nepeta shook your hand, grip rough and warm. “I’m a ward of Lord Zahhak until I decide to, ah, well, you know.”

You suppressed a giggle at Nepeta’s darting glances around. She was new to this, you expected. “How kind of him?”

She brightened. “Yeah, he’s great. Only talks down to me a little, but I think that’s mostly because he’s old as hell and has kinda earned it. Treats me better than like, eighty percent of his clan.”

“Really? What little I know of Zahhak indicated that he was something of a haemosupremacist.”

“Well yeah, but can you blame him? He’s taken on trying to control, like, all of the continent’s feuds so we, uh, they, don’t ruin the whole game.”

“That… doesn’t quite align with what I have heard, but I will defer to your much more immediate knowledge,” you said graciously, even as you suspected the girl was more than a little biased. Her eyes narrowed as she parsed your statement, but her expression eventually clears.

“Anyways, I’m here to extend Lord Zahhak’s invitation to you personally.”

You blinked, playing at ignorance. “And what invitation was that?”

“Oh, to join him at the Tower for a tour and dinner, and-”

“And perhaps a sun-viewing, is that it?” you finished coldly. Her eyes went wide at the change of tone. “Please extend my regrets to Lord Zahhak and remind him that all scheduling must go through my assistant.”

She stiffened, a shock of surprise clearly taking her off-guard. “The hell? I didn’t think you were actually so fucking arrogant to make Equius get in line like everyone else!”

“Arrogance is presuming that you are not ‘everyone else.’”

Eyes flashed and the young woman’s posture changed dramatically. You would have stepped back for all the violence it promised, but you held your ground. Her hand flashed out and gripped your wrist, hard and unyielding.

“You ungrateful bitch!” she hissed, more catlike than even her namesake would have led you to believe. “You would not believe how much Equius has worked to make sure you stay untouched by others.”

“Then perhaps he should tell me himself. After he has booked an appointment with my secretary.”

“I oughta-”

You snatched your wrist back and pulled her into you. She hit you like a brick wall, all muscled limbs and off-guard intent. Into her ear you whispered.

“You ought to what, child? In front of all these people? Please, stake me here and then go running back to you _Lord_ and see what he has to say about your ruining the great game. Can he make the fallout go away? Can he make the _shame_ of your failure go away?”

Eyes, hot with anger, hate and confusion stared up at you and you began to regret your handling of the girl. That was not a good combination.

* * *

“It appears I finally find myself in the company of one possibly _even more_ bored here than I, Mister…?”

“Doctor. Doctor Dian Lucier.” He accepted your hand and bowed over it, even as you rolled your eyes and thanked the Circle he didn’t try to kiss it. “And you need no introductions, Rose Lalonde.”

“Mmm, yes. I have been plastered across all the media recently, haven’t I?” you remarked wryly. 

“Oh, certainly that. But my daughters adore your work so, I suspect I knew of you before most.”

“Oh? Be sure to extend my gratitude for their reading. But you said _they_... shall I take it to mean that the good Doctor doesn’t share in their adulation?”

“Ha! Perhaps had I the chance to enjoy it separate from the fannish consumerism of teens, but alas I cannot separate the author from the idol.”

“Well,” you said, preening. Nibbling a bit at the implied attentions of others far away. “There are worse things to be, I suppose.”

“Indeed, and while I have nothing against my daughters’ idolatry, I prefer admiration of more secular sort. Your mother, for example.”

That caught you off guard. Blinking, you managed, “My mother?”

“Yes. Oh, forgive me! I hadn’t mentioned that the doctorate is in theoretical physics. I work in Geneva.”

“Of course you do. Heavens, I can imagine why you’re so bored here.”

“Yes, well, someone had to go drum up some extra money, and I drew the short straw.”

“Straw? What, you don’t mean your colleagues and you didn’t strip wires and draw lots that way?”

“Haha! No, I am what some professions call a desk jockey. I don’t get much time in the actual experiment laboratories, I do analyses and modelling. Hunched over a computer like a little gremlin, in a dim office with flickering lights.”

The little man’s impression of his stooped posture drew a smile from you. Quite a charmer, in a strange, European way. “Doctor, you have just describe an average day of work for me.”

“Certainly not a gremlin!”

“Mmm, no. Perhaps a shrivelled up witch then, poking away at keys, cackling every so often.”

“Shrivelled up makes you sound so old though!”

“Indeed? Perhaps that is my mother then.”

“I feel as if I am compelled to defend the eminent Doctor Lalonde. She always comes across so very spritely at conferences and in interviews.”

 _I do believe I may be playing matchmaker for my mother,_ you thought to yourself wonderingly. _How utterly bizarre_.

“Perhaps it is all that mad cackling. Could it have the opposite effect of laughing? Instead of laugh-lines, eerily smooth skin, enough to drive a plastic surgeon to distraction?”

“I wouldn’t know, unfortunately. Last I took biology was twelfth form. Maybe some of the energies she is working with are having an effect. Like electroshock, except more esoteric.”

 _Oh, if only you knew, you funny little man._ “Really, electroshock.”

“It does wonders for toning, I’m told. Quite the fad, years ago.”

“Whatever you do, do _not_ let my mother hear that. If she finds _another_ way to monetize a discovery, we will have even more useless clutter piling up in our house.”

“I swear on my many fancy pieces of paper,” he said, holding one hand up, the other flat as if resting on a bible - or a stack of degrees. His champagne, pinched precariously between thumb and forefinger, threatened to spill. “Oop, very nearly alcohol abuse there.”

“Oh yes,” you murmured, “I do believe you and my mother would get along quite well.”

“Do you think so?” he asked brightly. Still, you didn’t taste much in the way of desperation about him. There was that at least. No over-eager nerd for your mother, oh no. “Well, if you think that, perhaps have her give me a call, if she is in town over the next week or so.”

He produced a plain white card with CERN’s logo and scratched out the number, replacing it with an American one. “Always a pleasure to meet a fellow physics enthusiast.”

“I’m sure,” you said drily. _Am I doing this? Am I_ really _doing this?_. Something almost like distress filtered your way from a link you cared about much more. Your eyes darted towards it and you saw Kanaya in a confrontation with someone who screamed “hired muscle.”

“Now, Doctor Lucier, I’m certain we’d get along just fine if we continued this, but I’m going to check up on my friend. If I don’t find you again, do have a lovely evening.”

“Ah, yes, of course. You too, Ms. Lalonde.”

* * *

A startlingly warm hand wound its way around your waist, brushing against your locked wrist and Leijon’s grip. The other woman released you as if shocked and you relaxed into Rose’s arm.

“Anything the matter, dear?” she murmured in a tone cultivated to send shivers down your spine. Distantly you thought _Aren’t vampires supposed to be the seductresses? How does this keep happening to me?_

“Not at all, Rose. Nepeta and I were just discussing her bosses upcoming appointment.”

“Oh-”

“Like hell we’ll-” Leijon snalrls, curling her lip.

“I don’t think you’re showing sufficient respect, girl.” Rose’s tone dropped into the abyssal and you shiverred for very different reasons.

“I’ll show some respect when it’s-”

“Silence.” The sibilant hiss that leaked from Rose’s mouth bore no resemblance to the catty noise of Nepeta’s earlier attempt. This was an inhuman, undead noise, the venting of corpse gas and the sounds of multitudinous limbs overflowing from a pit with no bottom.

Nepeta’s jaw clacked shut and her throat bulged obscenely. Panic filled her eyes as black liquid began to dribble from a corner of her mouth.

“Run home, supplicant, and tell your master to be careful of the monsters he plays with.”

The girl bolted, not for the exit, but the washroom and you can see her stomach heave with revulsion. Guests of the party finally clued in and stared curiously at her and at the pair of you. You swallowed and smiled, saying to the open air,

“Perhaps dinner disagreed with her.”

“Mm, now that you mention it love,” Rose murmured, “I’m not feeling too well either.”

“Well.” you said blankly. You supposed she had done well even this far into the evening. You’d gotten her out of the apartment and socializing with her betters (or inferiors, depending on whose point of view you took). “Let’s head out ourselves then.”

_Before you can cause even more casual mischief._

You slid an arm around the smaller woman and led her to the exit and down the magnificent flight of stairs to the building’s lobby. As you wait for your limousine to arrive, you felt the ghosting patterns of Rose’s nails through your dress and flush. Apparently she had an ulterior motive for wanting to get out of there. For formality’s sake you ask as you enter the car,

“How are you feeling? I hope that wasn’t too exhausting.”

“Not at all. I believe the Gospel is at work already. Though by the end of the night, there may be some exhaustion involved.”

“Really?” you said innocently. “I thought we were just going home for the evening?”

The car door clicked shut softly and the lights of the stretch dimmed, casting warm shadows about. Gleaming in that welcoming dark was Rose’s grin. Hunger and deviousness showed in equal amounts as she _flowed_ across the compartment, into your lap. Her gown seemed to merge with the shadows, even as you felt its silken lengths slide up your legs.

“Just, she says,” the woman in your lap crooned, her hands running up your front. You found your hands on her hips, nails digging in with desire. Then Rose had your jacket gripped and hungrily pulled you into a kiss. Silken touches of fabric slid up beneath garters and _clawed_ at your midriff, drawing hot lines of need before slashing down and making a ruin of delicate fabrics.

“God, Rose,” you gasped at their sharp passing. “Careful with the clothing.”

“So order more,” Rose murmured at your ear, biting at it hungrily. The energized fabric retreated, taking the ruin of your panties with it, while ivory teeth nipped their way to your shoulder straps, their wet passing leaving chilled marks for more than one reason. She was more careful with your straps, perhaps willing to spare you the embarrassment of making it to your apartment half-clothed, but soon enough a too-clever, too-limber tongue was circling your areolae to bring high-pitched cries from your throat.

Too many fingers clawed their way up your hose, probably ruining them forever, but you were past caring. Then a hot, needy mouth was on yours and that tongue, that clever tongue challenged you and with the strength of the dead you grabbed at her hair and pulled her head back, pulled her off you. Huge white eyes widened in surprise, briny tears welling from them, but those ivory teeth, edged in viscous black, bit at a darkened lip. You very nearly threw her to the opposite couch in the limo, following her at speed so that her grunt of impact turned into a cry of lust as your mouth found her mound and your vampiric tongue found its way around her own underclothes into her.

It was the worst torture to keep your teeth sheathed, your tongue languid and pulsing instead of sharp and piercing. You wanted to bring this woman to her climax and suck the ecstatic life from her, but even as your body quaked with the need of it, your mind managed to warn you from the horrible danger. What flowed through that woman is not lifeblood. So as her keening gasps sent you into a frenzy and threatened to drive you mad, you held back, finally rearing back from her sodden snatch, eyes glazed and incisors lengthening. 

Unseeing white eyes took in your desperate need and then her hands cupped your face and brought you in for a kiss, dragging your dress up above your hips. You melted into her soft touch, then started as cool wetness probed at your nethers. Gasping, you detached, fearing to look down, but the dark goddess beneath you brought your face around. She looked at you hungrily, but questioning, even as a thin tendril slipped inside you and wrung a tremble of pleasure from you. 

Then you nodded and cast caution to the wind, claiming the mouth of the monstrosity beneath you. In response the tendril thickened and filled you and the sound that left your throat was filthy. You went limp, falling heavily into her arms as the thing pulsed and thrust inside you. Smaller pseudopodia found your clit, slipping inside you to tickle and tease at your hidden spaces and your breath hitched while a spasm traveled through your legs. Your flesh pressed against hers and as you groaned and grunted at the rhythmic pulsing, you could feel her flesh writhe beneath you; her tremulous voice joining yours as she fucked both of you with undulant things born of the aroused pits of her mind. 

Lips found yours as legs wrap around your waist to hold you fast as wracking, crying orgasms shake you both.


	5. Its

The prickle of their apprehension plays across your senses and you crush a bemused smile. That wouldn’t do, now would it. The darling children have their version of you and it wouldn’t do to ruin it before its time. The fire behind you warms you and may eventually leave your clothes dry, but that would take some hours yet.

Instead, you meander forward and make a show of inspecting their circle. They part before you in awe, stepping back or scrabbling away. What emotions filled you before are slowly being pushed out by the bolstering feel of their surging regard and you welcome it, swallowing it whole. Passing by a tome that you vaguely recognize as an early hardback of the Complacency, you snatch it up. Flipping through it, you discover little sticky tabs bookmarking pages and on those pages, descriptions of rituals underlined.

“My but someone _did_ do their homework, didn’t they?”

Silence, and the ecstatic terror of fans meeting their idol. The good Doctor had that right, at least.

“Oh come now, your tongues can’t be tied, not from the banter you were trading before.”

“Holy fuck,” one breathes.

You grimace. “Not the answer I was expecting, but progress of a sort.”

“A… answer?” a more timid voice speaks up. The Lia child.

“Yes. Was this a group project or an individual’s work?” you repeat. Not slowly, not as if they were idiots. That wouldn’t play well with their fragile egos. Distantly, you wonder how you recall what it was like to be a teenager.

“It was Lia’s idea!” the Dylon boy said in a rush. “We were just humouring her!”

“Yeah, it’s not like any of us thought it would work.”

“And did it?” you ask.

Confusion, uncertainty. In a practiced movement you flip the book around in one hand and snap it shut with a satisfying clap of paper. 

“Come on, people, we won’t get anywhere if you intend on tiptoeing around, scared of the very breath in your lungs.”

“Are you asking if the ritual worked or if we think it worked?” Sash asked.

“Hmm, there’s a bright one. How about ‘yes?’”

“Uh. I don’t think it worked?”

“And why’s that?”

“Because it’s supposed to summon a horrorterror?”

“Really?” you flip the book back open and make a show of going through the pages. “I don’t recall ever writing something like that.”

“Holy fuck, you _are_ Rose Lalonde.”

You let irritation flicker across your face for moment, if only for emphasis. “Yes, do try to keep up. Now, Lia, why was it you thought that this thing would summon a horrorterror?”

“Um, I, uh. I just sorta… hoped… it would?”

“You hoped you and your friends would summon an implacable, ravenous conglomeration of insanity and cthonic virtues,” you deadpan. A nod. “Incredible.”

You look towards a heaven that doesn’t exist. “Was I this bad when I was- of course I was. I nearly forgot myself there.”

You look back down at the girl (down being relative - she’s very nearly your height sitting) trying to muster some kind of disapproval. Your face is stern, forbidding, and were they paying attention they’d notice your shadow looms larger than all of theirs. But they are focused on you. Lia is focused on you. This close, you can _feel_ her devotion. It is a heady thing, and you think if you were to stay any closer, you could get drunk off it. Even now, you have to suppress an embarrassing bubbling laugh, and that cracks your mask.

But a crack is all it takes for shoots to grow through even the toughest stone and once they see the laughing girl behind the stone white idol, they warm and the barrage of questions, validations break forth.

* * *

It seems nothing is off-limits for this bunch and it takes force of will to to lead them off the more tasteless topics. Nobody likes a gossip, is the thrust of your point and it comes after a series of questions about you and Kanaya.

“Oh, I’ve known her since we were your age. We were separated for a time, but she visited me after my, ah, convalescence, and we caught up from there.”

“Oh my god that’s so cu-”

“Are you banging her?”

“Next question.”

“Look, I don’t mean nothin’ by it, it’s just Sash’s got this girl who’s-”

“NEXT QUESTION.” Sash’s mimicking of your reply is accompanied by a weighty backpack delivered to the offender’s head at speed. You cackle cruelly at the howl of anger and pain.

Other than the usual teenaged gutter-minds, you’re surprised by their perspicacity. They ask about Calmasis’ agender, about the parallels in the Complacency and the world. You are distinctly pleased your work is teaching them more about literary analysis and critical thinking than their high school English classes. But if you remember clearly, that should not be something to be too pleased about, given the quality of American education.

Still, they’re sharp. And even if they pick up on more criticism than you’d ever hoped, in their eyes dance visions of dark and hopeful fantasy, worlds of magic and twisted creation. You swallow thickly as you realize that here are kindred mortals, who will likely be denied their dream if you cannot stop what seems inevitable.

“...and when they’re getting bullied, why doesn’t Calmasis use their magic?”

“Because bullies are beneath you. They do not deserve your regard. If you have to deal with them, make them aware that they are the dirt beneath your shoes, the rags under the sink, useful only for mopping up the vomit of an unwelcome relative.”

Silence.

“You were bullied?”

“Of course. What part of this,” you gesture at yourself, “plus sixty pounds or so, looks like it would be left alone by societal pressure groups clambering over one another for status?”

“You lost sixty pounds? How-”  
“How did you deal with-”

“ _I_ didn’t lose the weight, my body did, quite without my permission. Hospital stays will do that.” You hold up weak arm, trying to flex. “The joys of biology ensured muscle went along with fat. I’d happily take the weight back if it meant being able to climb a few stairs with a laptop bag.”

Your eyes cut into them. “Your bodies are but shells for your consciousness, but they are _yours_. Don’t let anyone tell you how you should possess them.”

You cannot believe that you are dispensing advice to children. Physically, you suppose, you are not much older than them, but your ethereal years weigh heavy in your mind. You should be as distant from these children as the rest of humanity, but…

Perhaps it is their worship. A sense of closeness different from that you feel for... others in your life. Confusing, and you have no abyssal mentor to lead you through the feelings of having a… congregation. 

“How do you do the writing thing?”

“Oh, you know, I hit the bits that go click-clack, beat my head with a newspaper that goes whap-whap and smother myself with a pillow until I go huuuuhn-HA.”

They dissolve into laughter and you join them.

“But, no, seriously, like, how do you make something as huge and incredible as The Complacency.”

“Well, The Complacency was something of an aberration. I wrote most of it in what you could call a fugue state. And I had nothing to do with its editing and publishing, remember that. My mother handled those processes, for all that she did quite a good job. Some passages are more… anti-septic than I’d prefer, but it was quite a treat, my first time opening a hardcover of my own work. Almost like reading something someone else had written.”

“So how’s the Gospel coming, if we can ask that,” a quiet voice ventures after a pause.

“You know, as much as my publisher and agent ask me that question, you’d think I’d be sick of it. And perhaps I am, but it’s questions like that which keep me going, focused.” A pause, then you shake your head. “In any case, it is coming along quite well. As much an irritation as painstakingly putting together all these plotlines, characters and revelations are, I find I delight in learning more about the craft every time I backspace through an entire page.”

A pair of hands leap to a mouth with a gasp, “Hell, I could never do that! Maybe a paragraph, but wiping a whole page?”

“Hard, but necessary, I feel sometimes. I’d rather feel comfortable burning everything down moving on to the next section than biting my nails for hours on end trying to wrangle something imperfect. Get the words on the page, dear.”

Now you suppress the urge to smack your lips, but your mouth is drying out. You are not used to all this talking and that fire is doing an admirable job of sucking the damp out of the air.

“Seeing as how I have quite happily entertained you worthies and I am feeling quite parched…”

They stare at you and your face falls.

“Are you serious? Teens in a derelict building and you _didn’t_ bring alcohol?”

There’s a scramble as they parse your meaning.


	6. Roots

“No, for the past innumerable months you have been supporting me through the worst of my frailty and media nonsense, I demand to accompany you to your next show.”

You sighed, refusing to turn around. Your hands flipped through the seeming acres of cloth that made up your closet. The sun was bright in the sky, but thankfully neither Rose nor you kept anything like a nine to five schedule. Your people could manage for a few hours, and your attentions would not even need to be brought in until tonight, anyway. Hence the current problem. Well, part of it.

Resolutely picking your outfit out, you returned, “Rose, I cannot afford the distraction at this stage of this distribution. Tonight’s-”

“You find me distracting?”

“You have noticed the fact that I have yet to turn around, despite the fact that I can hear you needily shifting beneath the sheets?”

“Mmm, you can hear that? What monstrous senses you have.”

“Oh, you are one to talk!”

“Mm-hmm. I wonder, can you hear this?” Of course you could hear the sound of skin on skin, lips parting wetly and her breath coming faster. The look you gave yourself in the mirror could turn lesser people to stone. You kept picking clothing, but added a silken tie and a heavy winter coat to the pile in your arm.

At the first, high-pitched cry, you whirled, exclaiming, “That’s it!” before leaping the entire distance to your bed. Rose, one hand buried in herself, the other kneading a breast, went stock still in shock as she took in your descending form too late. Then you were straddling her, pressing the coat against her face. When her hands came up to fight you, you snatched them up and with inhuman speed bound them with the sturdy fibres of the tie.

You removed the jacket to reveal a pouting Rose and gave a soft laugh. 

“Now, none of that. If you’re going to pout, you absolutely will not be able to come tonight. Because I am a gracious soul, I will allow you a seat in the audience. If you are on your _best_ behaviour, you might come backstage after. But I will brook no interference before the show is rolling. Clear?”

“Clear… mistress,” Rose purred underneath you. You gave her a light slap and ignored what she did to your insides. Then you dismounted and went to clean up, hoping that a puddle of viscous tar wouldn’t bubble up from under the shower door to join you.

* * *

“I am still not certain what prompted this interest in fashion.”

“Oh come now, love, it’s not the fashion I’m here for,” you said evenly, tapping through articles on your phone. “It’s you.”

“Awwwww!” your mother cheered from the seat across from the pair of you. You shot her a dark look, half-serious in unspoken threat, but she shrugged it off. Your eyes shifted to Kanaya, blushing lightly in the gloom of the limo. She’d taken extra blood from her stores for the night, so such displays came easily.

“Well, that is… I mean-”

“You and mother have been nothing but supportive, both in the publishing campaign and in other works. And while trying to keep up with _her_ ,” you nodded at Roxy, “Is nigh impossible, we are in the same city at the same time, so I see no harm in making certain you understand that I appreciate you.”

Kanaya fell silent and looked out the window stiffly. She swallowed, with difficulty. A long-fingered hand covered your small, child-like one and gripped it tightly enough to hurt. You didn’t mind. The remainder of the ride was spent in silence, a welcome thing in the face of the clamouring, flashing crowds that awaited you at the venue. 

The attention hit you like a wave when the door opened. Unlike the directed worship of your readings and fans’ expectation, this rushed about you, sometimes slipping your way, but crashing against the unfeeling bulwark of Kanaya. There was so much devotion in the air, and Kanaya supped of none of it. It nearly turned your stomach. Your mother exited first, donning sunglasses in the face of the endless torrent of flashes and Kanaya helped you out, not out of any physical necessity, for once, but more so that your clumsy feet did not tangle in the immense folds and train of the dress you wore. 

They handled the questions, the interviews, and you smiled chillily at anything directed your way, not out of rudeness, but out of a lingering sense that you did not belong here, in the shadow of someone else. You tried to shake the feeling, but it stuck with you, a gloaming about your previously upbeat mood. That, combined with the roil of your stomach, soured your disposition. Still, you got through the mess by virtue of Roxy’s particular get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way business stride and your own cold demeanour. Some of your mood cleared when you finally reached the end of the red carpet and broke free of the crowds into the venue itself, but not for long.

“Alright, I have to get backstage and make sure no one has completely ruined my set. Your seats are front and center, so I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding them.”

“And _I_ am going to go get a pick me up after that nonsense outside. Want anything Rosie?”

You were about to scowl, but thought better of it. “Something with, oh, I don’t know. Gin in it?”

Like mother, like daughter, you supposed. You could do with something bracing as well. As they went their separate ways, you wandered into the actual showroom, the glistening train of your dress following you like diaphanous oil-slick. The rippling of it as you proceeded turned heads and, paradoxically, cleared a path ahead of you. A longer stride sped you up and set the thing fluttering up behind you. All around the runway were arranged chairs, and from what you could see, fairly uncomfortable ones. You dispensed with some uncharitable thoughts, thinking that perhaps their construction would aid in keeping you awake. Still, something must have shown on your face because before you manage to find your seats, you hear,

“I believe it is my turn to remark on our shared desire to be anywhere but here.”

The glower you were about to bestow upon the speaker turns mild when you realize who it is. 

“Dr. Lucier! What a surprise. I did not take you for a sartorialist.”

“Please, look at this drab thing I’m wearing. No, I’m here for that old fundraising bit again. And, if I’m honest, for more nefarious reasons.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow rose, arching further when the little man leant in conspiratorially.

“I brought my daughters.”

“Ah. Ah!” You recalled the “fannish” comment from before with some intrigue. Perhaps, finally, something to sate your roiling stomach. “You devious man.”

A chuckle. “Thankfully, you don’t seem too put out by the idea of meeting them.”

“Oh, I’m sure their manners will be perfect, with you for a parent.”

“Yes, well,” he preened. “Would it perhaps be too much to hope that your parental unit is in attendance?”

“Parental unit,” the words rolled delightedly off your tongue. “Now _that_ is a phrase worth keeping. And yes, in fact. She should be here somewhere, getting drinks.”

“Oh, perhaps I might go- ah, here’s one. Rose Lalonde, may I introduce you to my daughter Elizabeth?”

You turned in the direction Lucier was holding his arm out in and took in his daughter. And that was when the discomfort and irritation you had been feeling took on a prickling sort of certainty. Because for all that this Elizabeth was young, pretty and awe-struck, there was no hiding from your senses the fact that she was of monstrous mein. 

A mein startling reminiscent of Kanaya’s own supernatural presence.

The pause between all three of you was threatening to spill over into awkwardness. So, keeping in mind Kanaya’s words of warning about the great game, you extended a limp, gloved hand, 

“A pleasure, Ms. Lucier.”

Mutely, the woman took it. She was, at least, playing the part of awestruck fangirl to perfection, if it was really an act.

Oh, who were you kidding. No such thing as coincidences.

“Now now, Elizabeth, you can drool later, at the after-party. Let’s find your sister and get us some drinks first, hmm. Shall we see you again, Ms. Lalonde?”

“Oh, I should most certainly think so.”

You stared at their retreating backs for a long while, until they were out of sight, and longer still. When eventually a clear drink reeking of juniper and and other herbs passed in front of you face, you blinked.

“You alright, Rosie? You look ready to crumble that pillar with your mind. Also, please don’t do that. What’d it ever do to you?”

“I don’t suppose you know a Dr. Lucier. do you?”

“Eh? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Mm. Well, if you do happen to meet him tonight, keep Roux near to the surface.”

Your mother looked at you strangely and sipped the horrid thing in her hands. It started life as a martini, but the amount of sticks and garnishes hanging off the thing had mutated it into some perverse fruit salad.

“And what the hell is that?”

* * *

“Your fretting was typically baseless, dear Kanaya,” Rose said as she slipped an arm through Kanaya’s. They were cute. You had to give them that. And you were happy for them, happy that even with all this dark, end of days shit hovering over all of your heads, there was still some happiness to be had.

“I suppose it was an acceptable show,” Kanaya responded. You did wish they’d learn to talk like they were from this century. You knew both of them could do it, but together they just sort of lapsed into pretentious. 

“Though I do have to bring something up,” your daughter continued, leaning in. “I believe I met one of your kin earlier. Claiming to be the daughter of a man who I met at the fundraiser.”

Kanaya raised a hand to her temple. “They just won’t quit, will they.”

“Who won’t?” you asked. You didn’t exactly keep up with Kanaya’s dark dealings like Rose did. Too much to do and there was only so much supernatural B.S. that you were willing to put up with.

“Some people think the ‘quality’ of their blood entitles them to private audiences or skipping the queue. It is incredibly tiresome and moreover, insulting to all of my clients. I don’t know how, but I am going to have to put my foot down at some point.”

“Well, don’t look now, but you may just have an opportunity,” Rose murmured, gesturing behind you. Turning, you had time to see Kanaya roll her eyes and and drag her palm down her face in a most unladylike manner before Roux hissed in your mind,

_Roxy! Be careful, the stench around this one is-_

Your blood ran cold at the sight of pinched eyes and a yellowed, smarmy smile underneath a greasy, shiny dome. Cold lightning suddenly came alive in your veins as Roux wakened in the depths of your mind, shielding you, empowering you, as it was your turn to hiss,

“Scratch.”

“Oh, please, Roxanne, that old nick? Try something new.”

“What the hell are- you know what? I don’t even care. Get the hell out of here before I call security.”

“Security? Whatever for?” Papery, wrinkled hands spread in mock appeasement. “Nothing untoward is happening here?”

“Like hell I’m even playing into your games. Kanaya he’s not here for you, at all.”

“Ahem. I see you already know Dr. Lucier, Mother.”

“Oh, she does, she does. Sorry, dear, I did have to lie a tad, to keep you disarmed.”

“Disarmed? Wha-”

“Come on, Roxy, tell our daughter who I- oops! Spoiled it!”

The smarm disappeared, gone from the small face and the grin grew all daggers, all sickly points. Rose’s face was a study in rapidly changing expressions, confusion, betrayal, horror and suddenly, finally, apoplectic rage as she worked out what part this man had to play.

“I don’t know what Horror spawned you, mortal, but if you think you’ll challenge me, here, you have-”

“Horror? Oh no, you have it all wrong. There’s-”

“-a time and a place for this, wouldn't you agree, ah, Dr. Lucier?” Kanaya interrupted, her throaty voice high and imperious. Her eyes were fixed on the pair of women behind the little toad and it was clear who she thought needed to be reigned in. The cocky, hungry looks on those women’s faces spoke volumes about what they were here for. “Perhaps we can delay this until after this little to-do is over?”

“Well, that sounds eminently civil, I suppose. I wouldn’t want to offend such a gracious host.”

That smile sent shivers down your spine and curdled your gut.


	7. In

“Hey, so, um…”

“Yeah, so, totally,” you snap back, vapidly twirling a strand of hair around your finger, head cocked to the side. You try to lessen the bite of the snark with a soft smile, but are uncertain if you manage. But it has the intended effect. She straightens, looks you in the eye, briefly.

“Can we maybe get a selfie with you?”

“A selfie,” comes your flat response. “You are asking me if I would like to participate in the self-absorbed culture typical of insecure teenagers frantically grasping for validation and acceptance in a world that refuses to acknowledge their basic personhood and consistently and systematically dehumanizes them to the point of industrializing and commercializing their self-esteem?”

Silence. Then, to your surprise, the tough guys steps up. Somewhat. He strikes a pose, at least, a front of sorts. He looks like he’s about to rebut what you’re saying, but then just says,

“Uh, yeah. That. That cool?” You hold him in your regard for a moment. For all its cool weight, he doesn’t flinch, but you can tell he’s regretting that. Still, he shows spirit.

“But of course. Someone else will have to take the picture, though. I am terrible with cameras.”

“Ooh, can we get like, one super-serious shot and one goofy as hell shot?”

* * *

In a millennium, maybe they’ll find the pictures, bits of data lost in the ether of the net. Two pictures saved of half a dozen, a dozen. Memories of a time long gone, of faces easily forgotten and one blotted out.

A group of teenagers in dark, somber colours gather close around the camera, their faces dour and distant, almost comically so. In the background, barely peeking beyond spiked shoulders, the fire flickers, an almost living, active thing despite the static image. Their skins are dark, aside from one or two who are so pale as to look like death. And one of them with wet, stringy white hair seems to be taking goth culture to the thematic conclusion.

In the other, the masks have fallen off and they are all children again, grinning happily, idiotically, maniacally. Some make faces, some cross eyes, but they all make a mockery of their appearance, even the palest goth. A trashcan is revealed to be the source of the shadowy atmosphere, throwing visible warmth and comforting light from its burning grace. Their eyes are hooded, but laughter twinkles in them.

* * *

“Hey, can we ask you to sign the Complacency?”

“Ah, I had been wondering when that was going to come up. But of course. Just don’t let me hear from my mother that it’s turned up on e-Bay. _I_ don’t care, but I’ll never hear the end of it from her.”

Laughter at mockingly rolled eyes and then pens are thrust under your nose. In a fit of pique, you pick a black one and a sparkly purple one, wasting the next ten minutes or so figuring out how to sign the massive swooping shapes of your initials in two pens as the kids laugh and make a mess of writing with you.


	8. The

“I must thank you, Dolorosa.”

The assembled masses were gone, the staff given the night off, with a promise of a bonus to clean on the morrow. The ballroom echoed with emptiness, its clutter doing nothing to eat up the sound. Chest high tables, arranged in strategic rays, stood bare, immobile, like miniature pillars of old baring witness to new myth. 

“While my Master does not care for the details, I prefer subtlety, a delicate touch with mortals and immortals alike.”

And that was when prickling unease turned. Realization coursed through you, white hot knowledge delivered by kourvikoum. Your mother had been right. This man wasn’t here for Kanaya at all. This person claiming to be your father was actually here for you, and quite probably the source of your human genetic code. Something like a gasping cry escaped your throat as the kourvikoum did not let up and 

_it_

_was_

_made_

_clear_.

* * *

_a roaring cacaphonous presence in something like the ether screams its whispering orders from a million and seven heads_

_it hungers_

_it hungers so_

_It wants to feast on godflesh_

_if it cannot have that of the One God and Its Angels, it will rend apart the Noble Circle_

_suck their souls out their constructs_

_crunch through their terror_

_lick the abyss clean of their dank spiritual liquid_

_but the way is shut_

_the Circle starves itself, scared off from the war with the angels, regretful that it didn’t finish both off_

_it needs a gate_

_it needs a herald_

_summon the pliable human, the thing with the oblivion fetish ___

The creatures beyond this plane tend to think of the mortal realm as beneath them, similar to how we view the ground beneath our feet. It grows crops, it feeds animals we feed on, it is an ever-present thing that we never really pay attention to. 

And then every so often someone decides to use it to get somewhere they are not wanted.

Someone decides they need to make a _hole_ in the _ground_ , a mix of the below and the above, of ground and air, a passageway, a _tunnel_. And they force their servant upon a woman and bring their thing into the world to accomplish their goal and y

and y

and you were vomiting, the horrifying knowledge that your existence was the premeditation of a universe-eating archthing twisting genetics and physics to sate its basest hungers.

The vomit turns black in your panic as flight or fight instincts kick in and the horrorterror recognizes that which could erase it.

* * *

“Indeed, you were supposed to be a gateway _to _the Furthest Ring, but I suppose this implementation is good enough and what complications it offers are not insurmoun-”__

“Rose!”

“Rosie, sweetie, can you hear me? It’s ok, wake up, you can do it, just come back to the sound of my voi-”

You tried to raise yourself from the arms of your almost-family. You had apparently collapsed during that riotous mess of visions and now you were finding that you could not rise. A hand flailed out uselessly and the bald man chuckled cruelly. Then, to your disgust and shock, a voice cracked through your head, through your loved-ones heads.

“Ladies, if you please, do away with these mortal husks and prepare the aetheric encapsulator for the young Lalonde.”

Your mother and you wracked to the beating flare of pain which lit up in time to the fiend’s words. Somehow this filth’s influence was wreaking havoc in your neural systems, through some psychery or sorcery. The two young predator-things stepped forward, jaws unhinging and massive incisors unsheathing in a display of force. You would once have considered them vampires, save for the sheer hatred and disdain radiating from Kanaya now. 

“That will be enough, you half-formed pretenders,” she snarled, stepping forth, seemingly unaffected by the ill-effects of the bald human’s psychics. “One more step and you burn where you stand.”

They paused for an instant and then, with the childish cunning of those that know they will get away with a cruel thing, they cackled and moved forward.

Kanaya shrugged out of her jacket and the world went bright.

* * *

You could count on one hand the number of times you have unleashed the power of the sun on thinking vampiric frames, even such horrific, malformed things as this human doctor has brought before you. The shrieking that they let loose was like any other clade, however. Up until you realized the over-acting, the mockery in their screeches.

“The Dolorosa mutation of the vampiric parasite is a _fascinating_ thing, so incredibly complex to be able to process and store solar radiation. As opposed to shrivel from it, like all the other mutations. What a feat of breeding, to limit such an advantageous evolutionary trait.

“Such as Mindfang’s line! Do you like the psychic interference, Lalondes? I will have to look into why it doesn’t affect the Dolorosa, but I have hypotheses already. Now, girls, if you could deal with this rabble already, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Your blood had been a cold and sluggish thing for many years now. Only in the rarest of passionate feedings had it ever had a semblance of warmth. And yet, somehow, it managed to chill. This human had managed to reverse-engineer the Dolorosa gene and implant it into other vampires. He was mixing and matching vampiric traits.

For a brief moment, you thought you experienced what Rose described as _kourvikoum_. The logicial, inevitable conclusion of a given set of events. Other clades gaining access to the Dolorosa’s sun resistance.

The extinction of the human race at the hand of ecstatic, delirious vampires.

They fell upon you with speed beyond that which you have come to expect from your kin. More mixing, a distant part of you identified. Your head struck the floor, rebounded and a clawed hand pressed it back down, the pressure almost enough to crush your skull. As the dark began to encroach, as blood tears began to run from your eyes, you spied the lightening eyes of Roxy turning towards you. In a moment’s breath a blink took them from pained and terrified to pink-lit and sad.

Roux gave a single, solitary nod before clenching her eyes shut, hiding the tears already welling from both minds.

Yours ran freely.

And you let loose the energy of creation.

The vampire-things screeched and writhed as pink-tinged lightning erupted from your skin, blasting clean through their flesh and bones. Where the bolts erupted from you, your skin blistered black, the power of the beyond too much for your form. But the false things, those fake vampires? Their hole-filled corpses exploded from the trauma of sudden sublimation and in the blood red rain you stood.

“You thought we were solar batteries, you flailing, _fucking_ monkey? I store _energy_ , you _fucking ignoramus_.”

Another burst skittered tiny arcs of lightning through the descending rain and mist, vapourized the stuff into corpulescent dust. As their remains floated quietly to the ground, you became aware of two very pressing gazes upon you. The human doctor looked at you in rage and sudden fear, backing away from your display. But Rose, Rose regarded you in helpless confusion even as she struggled to push herself up, to confront the seeming impossibility before her. Your eyes stung and your heart shrivelled, knowing what this revelation would mean. 

Then the crush of reality hit and amidst your exhaustion and pain Lucier drew a handgun from his jacket pocket and drew his bead. The shot. The perfect pain in your chest. Your collapse. The welling of dead blood under the gentlest of pressures. Then the world of was fading, darkness claiming its child, finally. The cold crept inwards, inwards from every point at which you flared light and energy as if the world was punishing you for your power, your sin. You were so, so tired but all you could think was that at least you would never have to face Rose for this. 

* * *

You crawled towards your lover, her form rent, all pocked-marked with blackened blisters that did not heal. That Scratch was long gone and what neural mess he’d made of you and your mother was going with him, but still your limbs and your mind did not move as they should. Perhaps it was for the best, a few more moments of sweet innocence. 

Ha. What delicious, cosmic irony, those words. 

A clatter and the white clad form of your mother, no, of Roux rushed stumbling past you. The duality of her mind must have afforded her some protection and you found yourself grateful for the angel. A stumble to the vampire’s side and she was propping Kanaya up, holding her in her arms with a look of panic and pain so alien to her normally hauty features that your crawl slowed. Your mind sped up. 

Then she bit savagely into her left wrist and with a whipping motion of her neck tore it open. The wound was pressed immediately to blackened lips, an elegant jaw forced open by fragile flesh. She was screaming, you realized belatedly. 

“ _Live! Live, God-damn you! You weren’t supposed to die, you silly child!_ ” Sobs wracked your mother’s body, though it was not her voice. “ _I’m the one who is supposed to pay for this farce! My life, the weight on the scales! My soul, condemned! Fuck you, you selfless monster, **live**_.” 

“Roux, what-?” Your question was overridden by the rising timbre of your mother’s voice. “Oh my god, Roux, what did you _Sorry, I’m sorry Roxy_ do, you stupid _Please not now, Roxy, later, later, just give_ bitch of a monster, what did you _me this, she doesn’t have much time_ to my daughter?! 

_Drink, God-dammit, Kanaya!_ ” 

You managed to pull yourself to your knees, closer to them. An arm reached out, a hand grasping for white cloth. Too close to the angel - pale red lightning sparked at your fingertips. Roux’s head whipped around as you snatched your hand back. Her eyes were wide and white, bloody stigmata colouring tears pink. No pupils, but expression enough. 

“ _Rose. I am not sorry, but for this, and the necessity of this. Shield yourself, dark thing._ ” 

* * *

Your name is Roux and your life has been short. Your first, in a dimension far away from here that you once called home, was short as well. There you were every bit the outcast you were here. Your eagerness for the low matter of the physical was rewarded, even as your rebellion was punished. A red-headed step-child, cast from Heaven to redeem itself in the plottings of ones more powerful. A pawn with low aspirations, promised freedom between the realms if it could accomplish its tasks. Here you were… more. Important, even if you came by that import through manipulations. Wanted, needed, certainly. Here you were a singular thing, regarded as distinct. A being of your own, almost free to do as you pleased, almost free to define who you were. 

What price, freedom? 

What price, emotion? 

You dreamed too big, felt too much. You grew a mortal soul and all the sin and baseness that came with it. And now the path of your life is laid out before you and ahead you can see but black rage, the dark wrath of the old enemy beside you. The bright part of you that descends from the First quails, but your heart fears the absence in your arms more. And so you cast your eyes upwards, cast your mind Heavenward, 

_What bargains I made, let them be null. What promises were made me, I break. What Grace I have, I would give it. Though all goes to plan, let me make right this small, mortal wrong. Let her live._

Silence. 

* * *

Silence as Roux stilled, gazing upwards. But you could feel the gathering attention and you made yourself small, drawing the horrorterror deep back into your soul, even as you threw up a shield. The dimness of the ballroom deepened in time to protect you for a moment, just a moment. A moment where in snapping, jarring suddenness a halo bloomed from the crown of Roux’s head, flared and ate the dark whole. An instant’s vision of starfire swords and you had to bite back a scream at the anathema scouring past. 

You think you heard a distant bell, tolling in finality. 

Just an instant, and then your vision was clearing, your eyes already fixed on pale flesh, unmarred by blister or blood. A wet, sucking noise came and Kanaya convulsed, snarling, feeding at Roux’s, at your mother’s wrist, slurping and drinking down the pulsing lifeblood. You could feel the rapturous delight of hot life pouring down her throat, the pleasure flickering to life in her ravenous mind. And then the horror, the fear. The sucking stopped. A hasty lick from elbow to thumb dragged a too-long tongue across the wound, sealing it shut. 

Even if you could ignore the shuddering sigh that passed through Roux, through your mother’s defiled body, you could not ignore Kanaya’s hand bringing that limp, ragged wrist to her cheek. 

In the time it takes two pairs of eyes to disengage and snap, remembering and horrified to you, you dispersed, the departure of every molecule in your body wanting to be _away_ causing a deafening _bang_ that sundered the silence and your ties with the past. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Drama continues in [This Fertile Ground,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1544345/chapters/15090028) an instalment of Writings in the Spaces Between.


	9. Past

Amid the laughter and cheap, shitty alcohol, you find something like peace. Or distraction, at least. After the events of this night, it has been sorely needed. You hate the over-dramatic _emo_ reaction the betrayal had wrought you, albeit distantly. Walking alone in the dark and the rain, _really_. But you can’t spare it too much thought, it dances too close to the actual pain of the betrayal and that wound seeps still, a pustulent emotional boil that pulses with every beat of memory. Leave it alone, fool.

The teens are finally beginning to relax around you and you have to look away from the groups couples that form. They are eager to include you though, and so you don’t feel the lack of a partner. Too much. This harsh, burning whisky is nothing like the sugary concoctions that your mother holds too, but it does the job, clouding your mind. If you need to, you are pretty confident you can copy the angel’s trick and purge the toxins, but… well, it is easier to let them run their course right now.

“... uncle used to live here until the evicted everyone, but then the construction company got dragged into court so nothing’s even going down here. Fuckin’ waste is what it is.”

“I’m sorry, I think I zoned out there. What were we talking about?” A round of giggles meets your slurred words.

“Hell, Miss, you asked first. Our - this place. The building used to be apartments, Dylon knew it cuz his uncle used to live here. Now it’s all condemned, company’s in court and shit. Whole blocks of the city just fallin’ into ruin and wreckage and…”

The boy gestures and waves.

“You’d prolly describe it better. It’s just… kinda tragic and melancholic, yeah?”

“Yeah, like, we grew up here, and around here, and everythin’s goin’ to shit, but there’s still this love of it.”

Nods all around.

“Well, it shertainly sounds like what I’d write, but if you think I’ma be able to manage anything eloquent in _this_ shtate, you’re kiddin’ yourself.”

More giggles, and real laughter. You reach for the squared-off bottle, its amber-red fluid gleaming warmly in the light. A pop of the cork and a chug of it and searing warmth travels down your throat to scattered cheers. It’s by no means good, but it's the best of this lot. You like the lingering warmth. Though the fire has since dried you, lingering bits of you remain chill.

With a boozy sigh you put the bottle down. “Everythin’ ends, kids. Lol, who’m I kidding, ‘kids.’ I’m not even a decade older than some o’ you.”

They go quiet, attention rapt. You blink, confused at the sudden swell of… comfort. Happiness? No. Satiation. Ah, right. Worship. You’re almost preaching now. Well, fuck that. You bring them back down to earth. “It isn’t, like, a bad thing. But sometimes it goes on too long, like a, uh, a high school romance gone on too long. Things need t’ change, but it hurts when they do.”

You blink, hard, involuntarily. Hot streams travel down your eyes and you wipe them hastily away. Your hands come away black, and you’re pretty sure you didn’t have this much mascara on. 

“Aha, fuck. Sorry. I mean, uh. Don’t mind me, just a drunk old woman, hahaha-” you wipe the oily liquid off and your eyes dart for the exit. It looks like it’s letting up out there. Maybe you can…?

“Did, um. Did something happen with you and the Dolor-”

A heap of young flesh dogpiles the unfortunate girl to shut her up. You don’t even have time to properly process it before bursting into giggles at the indignant, sputtering and shouting mess. You totter up unsteadily and move to the pile, searching for a hang that might belong to the silly girl. With some jeering and elbows, you haul her free and promptly fall over on your ass. She’s tearing up and while she’s laughing too, you can see the guilt in her eyes.

“There, there. We’re all allowed some drunken mis- misp- mistakes. But really, you barely know me, maybe don’t ask that sort of thing of strangers.” You pat her cheeks and stumble up.

“Well. The rain’s starting to let up. I should probably get going before people worry _too_ much. Never get famous, kids. Lose your freedom, blah blah, life’s so hard, et cetera, et cetera.”

Perfunctorily dusting yourself off, you move to the exit, waving gracefully. Or, really, drunkenly. You try not to make eye contact, prolonging the danger of them see you seep your essence wantonly into this reality. A messy sniffle snorts elsematter back into your cranium.

“Um,” a tentative voice begins, somehow drawing your attention. Who are you kidding, your attention is all over the place, and you don’t want to return to your life. You stop. Cast a look over your shoulder. “Can I, uh, ask one last question?”

A sigh. You focus on the girl. Lia, you think. “I suppose.”

“Ok, so I’ll try to make this really quick, but, um, ah. So! Um, Calmasis eventually becomes what xe hated, and really selfish in the pursuit of xyr goals, even if those are really commendable. Do you think that’s what’s gonna be needed to fix the world?”

And it hits you, the horrible realization of what Roux was doing. Not kourvikoum, not Sight, just logic and the personal knowledge born of sharing the same space as someone. But it strikes like thunder and you _thrum_ internally, emotionally. A veil on the betrayal is lifted, its cause and reason made clear.

Become what you hate, what you fear. Distance yourself from your humanity, because what is coming will not be stopped by mortal means. 

“Uh, you okay, Miss? Jesus Lia, look what you did, it’s-”

“It’s fine. It’s… it’s fine. I’m fine.” You take a deep breath and let it out, fumes and toxins leaving your core with it. It’s not Roux’s entirely natural methods, but it works just as well. Before the hour is up, you’ll be sober, painfully rooted in the world of betrayal and needs. “As to fixing the world…

“I don’t know. Am I becoming what I need to make my impact felt? Perhaps. Certainly I have ambitch-ambitions to do good, but there will inevitably be consequar- conseq- _fuck iiiit_ \- fallout from my actions. In the midsht of everything ending, all you can do is what you believe is right.”

You look at the quiet girl with huge dark eyes. God, you could almost be swallowed in those, drown in the regard, the love, the worship pouring from them. You need to leave before some demonstration pours forth from your gut.

“Thank you, child, for your question. It’s cleared up some things for me.”

* * *

The two-toned screaming coming from the guest room is distracting, particularly the crackle of voice and lightning that indicates Roux’s presence. She may be present, but she is in no way ascendant. Roxy’s volume and constant, voice-tearing interruptions make that clear. The angel is being brow-beaten by the wrath of the mother. You try to focus on your packing, assembling a closet in a suitcase suitable for your upcoming duties. You try to focus on anything but the revelation of your infidelity.

That fondest wish is shortly cast down in ruin as the room darkens in a profane exhibition of power. Your eyes dart around, even as you draw yourself up, fearfully, proudly. From a corner, the darkness boils and Rose steps forth, the ruins of her dress trailing and dragging shadows with her. Tiny black tendrils flail forth from her eyes and wrap around them like chaining pseudopodia. With every breath, the air fills with the reek of brine, rot and overturned earth. 

“Rose. I-”

“Be quiet.” The sound is an high-pitched burbling cacophony; even the smallest parting of her mouth is enough for a fell choir to screech and hum forth. Grey liquid follows the simple pronouncement and she passes you, into the hallway, the mess dripping down her front. You swallow, hard, waiting for some other reaction. But it does not come, and you continue packing. Faster now. You coward.

A knocking.

“Mother,” a far more human voice speaks, “I’d like to speak with Roux, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Dead silence. The creak of a slowly opening door.

“Hello, angel.”

“Rose, I-”

 ** _”Silence!”_** Now the noise is thunderous, the violent crack of a sea-storm. It is not even directed at you, and the force of it, the will of it, nearly drives you to your feet. 

“I know what you did, and I know why you did it. You think to sunder me from my humanity. You want a _horrorterror_ on the field, not some hybrid gateway thing.”

Something like a gurgle from the hallway, and you overcome your fear and better judgement and take a peek. Roux, Roxy’s body is kneeling before Rose, who resembles more an inky cloud in the hall than anything human. Her arm, still recognisably human, is outstretched and her hand, no, her claws are embedded in the skull of your… your lover. Faint dribbles of black and red leak from her hairline and you wince internally.

“But you have failed, and praise your One for that. Because I would not be able to carry out my task here without this human connection and as much as it hurts, heartbreak is a part of the human condition.”

A twitch from the body at its feet, a whimper. “Oh yes, not only have you failed, you have had the exact opposite impact. Whatever masters you answer to will have a field day with that.

But don’t worry, I am not sending you back. I love my mother too much to reduce her to whatever vegetable state your separation would induce. Instead:”

The darkness deepens and your once-bright apartment is reduced to a darkly sparkling fragment of the abyss. Visions of unspeakable things float through the air in the drifting, misty murk and figures rise up beside what-was-once-Rose. Witnesses, you think, though you don’t know why. Cords of tainted energy flow down that humanoid arm and into the skull of its mother.

“I bind you, La Roux. I bind you to Our name, to this vessel. You are caged henceforth, a prisoner of Roxy’s mind, released only when she gives her assent, when she believes you have done due penance. But never again will you see your Host, never again will you become One. You are no longer an angel, but rather a _ghost_ , Roux Lalonde.”

With the hissing declamation of that final word, a great wind whips up, gathering up all the gloom and doom that hangs heavy in this place. With a howl it disperses in a blinding vortex and in the hall all that remains is Rose, cupping Roxy’s cheek.

“Oh my god, Rose, I’m-”

“Mo-, Mom, it’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

You leave them to their comforts and return to packing, closing your door behind you. Some things of the late Marquise are the last to go in the suitcase. A quick inventory and you zip the thing up. A long, slim case that will have to be shipped goes under your arm. You turn, take a breath and march out.

Nothing stops you. You make your way through the hall, into the living room. No sign of Rose. Perhaps they are murmuring in the guest room. You hate yourself, but you turn, intending to leave with nary an apology or goodbye.

And there is Rose, before you, blocking the door. No dark glamour or tenebrous veils of power cling to her now. She is- she passes as human. You stay silent. You’d rather not be interrupted again. There is only so much chagrin you can take. 

It stretches, that silence, and in it you notice the lines, the stains on her. She’s been crying, of course. But there’s some stain on her dress, and with a flair of nostrils you identify it as alcohol. You stop yourself from trying to find out more.

“Kanaya,” She begins. Stops. Her eyes dart to the Samsonite, the case. “Leaving?”

“Ah, yes. The doctor represents a threat to-”

“Kanaya, he will be dealt with after-”

“Rose.” You are shocked by how much authority you can manage, how much confidence there is in your voice. Now to manage to follow it up.

“I am… there are no words for how sorry I am for how you- how I have treated you. How Roux and I have treated you. But for all- No, I won’t prolong this with useless explanations. She- it has been made clear to me that our interests, though aligned, do not always mesh. Scratch will not wait. The threat to my people, to the planet, must be dealt with. By me.”

Rose does not react. Stillness becomes the entirety of her form, but behind her eyes, you see her mind working, leaping from concept to concept, a mile a minute. And you see the gate falling, her mind closing off from you. A stoney farewell.

“Kanaya. I…” A last show of emotion. A heavy sigh, eyes pressed tightly together. “I am- I forgive you.”

The words leave her in a rush and your eyes well, your vision turning pink at the sudden rush. It is too much. It is all too much. With all the cursed speed you can muster you bolt past her, baggage clutched close.

You are down the first flight of stairs before the pink pearlescence of leaking from your eyes can hit the carpet.


	10. Epilogue

You stop in the doorway, the pull too much. Comfort of a kind calls, a feather bed of thoughts and regard. A new hook, a place of new comfort in this flickering world.

“One last thing, chi-, no. Kids.”

You turn and the churning in your gut, in your core is almost too much to contain. It burbles up into your throat, up behind your eyes and it is all you can do to hold the power back.

“Do you believe in magic?

Do you believe in the things in the dark, creatures in shadow and such harsh bright light to blind you unto your final eternity? Can you imagine a world of writhing, pulsing ephemera that is just on the other side of your mortal flesh?”

The fire in the bin dies down, the coals eating themselves as they turn to carbonaceous maws hungering for warmth and light and souls. The crackle of flames turns into the crack of cannibalistic matter. They go unnoticed by the teens, but other things set them on edge. The lengthening shadows. The timbre of your voice. The-

“Yo, she ain’t on the ground anymore!” One points at your feet, hovering bare inches from damp concete. A sharp cry, some swears. The lights go out, but they can see. At your whim. Damn the consequences, damn the secrecy. You are part human, yes, but part thing beyond. And the weakness of one leads to the waxing of the other.

“I asked you a _question_ , Lia.” Your voice echoes from every dark corner, every shadowed nook. The girl is stunned to silence, her huge eyes quivering in her skull from the pressure of your focus.

The roof begins to leak and no one notices until it is too late. By then the black oiliness has stained their clothes and bathed them in the essence of the Furthest Ring. Some eyes track to the black marks, but edge away, afraid to see what is before them. Some, but not all. Then lightning flashes and the sky quakes, setting the very foundations of the building shaking. Boards clatter, collapse, and amidst the cries and screaming of too-young folk, the walls and ground erupt.

Things with too many legs, pale saucers for eyes and teeth for orifices skitter and slither from the cracks of the building. It is too much for the kids who bolt, shrieking and crying, slamming past you, through unboarded windows. Away, just get away. They all run away. All but one, whose soul is wide open, who’s heart sings your praises.

“I asked… you a question… _Lia,_ ” your million mouths hiss. “Do. You. Believe. In me?”

Her head shudders, nearly uncontrollably on the the pillar of her spine. The horrific motions could be mistaken as a seizure, but with your awareness of her mind, you know it is not. You take the spastic nods of assent for what they are.

You go to grasp her jaw in your hands, but find it already gripped by palps, spider-hair needles securing them to her flesh. Shadow-thing tendrils weave about her head, slip into her orifices and her eyes roll back in black ecstasy as they pulse and pump your sacrament into her.

“Say my name,” you whisper in untold voices, the wafting breath of them setting the tendrils in her ears thrumming, her body wracking.

What erupts from her slender throat is no sound a human could make, let alone one so slight. A crackling, burbling sound; it is a blasphemous proclamation in this reality, a fell announcement to the dark corners of the world and the bass of it sets the building quaking: Your Mistress, Their Herald, is here.

“ _Rozh’l’onde!_

“Iä! Iä! Rozh’l’onde! Ph'ngluiog nafllw'nafh mguln Rozh’l’onde f'fm'latghagl shoggagl wgah'nagl fhtagn.”

A newly-ordained priestess convulses, gags and throws up oily black liquid, its rainbow sheen a profane blessing of the ground you two occupy.

* * *

_Beyond our reckoning, the Lalonde sits at the House of Night and Noon, waiting, summoning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _R.L. will return in the Finale of The Gospel Bright and Tenebrous._
> 
> _The Dolorosa will return in Writings in the Spaces Between._


End file.
